Howard Mumford Jones is the youngest of these three men, and comes from the spirit-haunted region of the Mississippi. While his poems have not yet attained absolute surety of touch and evenness of movement, yet of those presented in this group they probably evince the most grace and music, together with the highest and warmest poetic feeling. "When Shall We Together" has real sweep and atmosphere and glow. It is the production of a poet who loved the subject he was writing about. SOMETIMES Sometimes I long for a lazy isle, Ten thousand miles from home, Where the warm sun shines and the blue skies smile And the milk-white breakers foam-- A coral island, bravely set In the midst of the Southern sea, Away from the hurry and noise and fret Forever surrounding me! For I tire of labor and care and fight, And I weary of plan and scheme, And ever and ever my thoughts take flight To the island of my dream; And I fancy drowsing the whole day long In a hammock that gently swings-- Away from the clamorous, toiling throng, Away from the swirl of things! And yet I know, in a little while, When the first glad hours were spent, I'd sicken and tire of my lazy isle And cease to be content! I'd hear the call of the world's great game-- And battle with gold and men-- And I'd sail once more, with a heart of flame, Back to the game again! --Berton Braley. Saturday Evening Post, January 15, 1916. THE PIONEERS Current Opinion. Volume LIV. Page 497. (First published in The Coming Nation.) We're the men that always march a bit before Tho we cannot tell the reason for the same; We're the fools that pick the lock that holds the door-- Play and lose and pay the candle for the game. There's no blaze nor trail nor roadway where we go; There's no painted post to point the right-of-way, But we swing our sweat-grained helves, and we chop a path ourselves To Tomorrow from the land of Yesterday. It's infrequent that we're popular at home, (Like King David we're not built for tending sheep,) And we scoff at living a la metronome, And quite commonly we're cynical and cheap. True--we cannot hold a job to save our lives; We're a dreamy lot and steady work's a bore-- 'Til the luring of the Quest routs us out from sleep and rest And we rope and tie the world and call for more.